#dosomethingyummy

As promised, here is my entry for the Clic Sargent’s Yummy Mummy writing prompts, week one. I’ve decided to do the 3rd prompt: write something creative; imagine that your children can’t be at home with you.

The sun has barely lifted above the clouds and I am here, alone, in the half-light already. The bowl of water is no longer warm and the soaps have long since withered away to nothing. There are no more cupboards to clean, no shelves that need arranging and re-arranging and there are definitely no more pans that need a good old clean. I stand up and steady myself against a chair. I survey my handiwork and realise that it all needs doing again. So I run a new bowl and again I clean and clean and clean as the sun rises and another day begins and they are not here. Again.

I’ve come to accept that this will happen. The sun will keep on rising and the days will keep on appearing. Time does not stand still for me, or for anyone. I’ve come to accept this but I do not like it.

At night, I walk past their bedrooms with my eyes closed and I feel along the wall with my hands. I imagine that I am a blind pew from an ancient computer game and that I must make it all the way to the bathroom without bumping into a memory or being hit by the smell of them. That is the worst time.

At night, something pulls me to check in on their rooms and I have to stop. I know, from experience, that going into their rooms is not a good idea. There are too many… things. Too many dangers. I must walk past, eyes closed and hands fumbling for the safety of the bathroom.

Once inside, I feel safer. I am able to look at the mirror and see what this person looks like. I can study this person who has been inhabiting my skin just lately. She is like a paper doll. She could either float away on the breeze, or she could rip and tear and fall apart just like that. She is not real. She is not finished. There are parts that never got fixed; there are parts that can never be fixed. She is broken, this woman. With her white face and her black eyes and her down-turned mouth. With her knotted hair and the scars down her cheeks where the tears never stop falling. She is broken. She is a woman who has lost everything.

When I sleep, time stands still. I am complete. They are there, the little people, and they are holding my hands. They are with me. The sun shines. They are home.